


A Brief History of Philip J. Coulson

by House_of_Ares, vampirekilmer



Series: Black Snake Moan [1]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Altered Mental States, Battle Trance, Berserker Episode, Blackout Rage, Explicit Language, Implied Underage, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mental Health Issues, PTSD, Paranoid Delusions, Psychosis, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-29
Updated: 2012-06-29
Packaged: 2017-11-08 19:39:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/House_of_Ares/pseuds/House_of_Ares, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampirekilmer/pseuds/vampirekilmer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When you go on an op, sometimes you end up not being alone out there after all. Sometimes the answer is in your own head."</p><p>Coulson's got issues; Barton is pretty good at dealing with them. Sometimes it isn't easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Brief History of Philip J. Coulson

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Краткая история Филипа Дж. Коулсона](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138389) by [Silmary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silmary/pseuds/Silmary)



> Beta'd by [thefrogg](../../users/thefrogg/pseuds/thefrogg).

  


_ 10/5/1986 _   
_ Somewhere east of Kangrina, Nicaragua _

It was in the forest of Nicaragua where they first met, the cloying plumeria mixed with the smell of pine blowing off the mountains. How laughably scared he was the first time, perched in a cacao tree with a liana around one wrist, the knife in his free hand, waiting for the signal.  How much his heart had been thumping. 

Everything creeped him out, more than in training. Breaking an ankle. Fucking up the kill. Getting someone else killed.  Disappointing the rest of them.

It’s not his first kill; there’s no real way to count bodies in firefights. There’ve been several through the end of a scope, the two clean shots with his service pistol dropping a would-be kidnapper. But this is his first knife kill.

He didn't fuck it up, but the guy didn't go down easy.  It wasn't quite like training, he couldn't completely stop the shakes and the cut wasn't good - uneven, jagged, blood soaking the shoulder of his uniform and through his T-shirt as the terrified  _ comando  _ struggled against him.

… _.heat in the middle of his chest, pressing hard against his heart and slowing the beat....  
….rusty splash of red across fern leaving his arms brightened to a sharp crimson....  
….sound of ragged, whistling attempts at screams soften until they are gone...._

_...…..….And then, there’s calm............. _

  
Stevens had walked over, wearing that creepy grin he had, and thumped his collar. "Buen trabajo."   
  
\--------------------   
_ 03/22/1987 _   
_ North of Las Animas, Nicaragua _   
  
Six months can change a lot.   
  
Shuttling back to Fort Lewis for a break, then back into the jungle, and the fucking Frente Sur still never look up in the trees.

… _..breathing slows, heartbeat steady, hand over hand...._

  
He drops easily just behind the man below him and kicks the AK out of his hand before he even turns.  The  _ comando _ 's surprised - they always are, and he gets the Nicaraguan in a bear hug under one arm, slides his arm up to keep the man from fighting, uses wrist to pull forehead back.  It's textbook, so easy, and the blade doesn't even hang when he slices across throat.

… _.it’s easy....natural..._

… _...a growl of contentment, the spicy metal of a fresh kill...._

The  _ comando _ thrashes against him, kicking and flailing his free arm, heels drumming on the ground, but he keeps his hold for a long moment before dropping the limp corpse.

… _..blinded eyes and ice cold hands..._

_...teeth bared and the bloodied grin of Death... _

  
When it's over, he kneels, pats the man’s face with a grin.

… _..mine...._

  
“ Mine now, motherfucker,” he whispers, then slices around trigger finger and snaps it off and tosses it into the brush.  There's a little blood on his cuff, but it blends into the camouflage, and he disappears back toward camp.  That's fifteen; he's earned the shot of Jack Daniel's.

\--------------------

  
_ 04/15/1991 _   
_ Fort Bragg, N.C. _   
  
It wasn’t until 1991, TDY at Fort Bragg after Umm Qasr, that he realized it had followed him home.    
  
The soldier was probably just stupid, not paying attention.  Tossed a cigarette butt onto the grass beside the sidewalk outside the GB Club, and Coulson just happened to be out finishing his own smoke.  
“Hey, soldier.  Pick that up,” he said.  The music inside was a little too loud, a little too hard.  
The soldier ignored him, and he jogged over, seeing red. Civvies or no, he was -  
“What the hell,” the soldier - lieutenant - asked, surprised, angry, and Coulson was too far gone.

… _.who do you think you are, you little shit...._

… _..on-the-spot correction, my responsibility..._

  
It’s a minor black mark on his record, only because the LT was some pogue from Division and had to go to the clinic and get stitches. It’s covered over with ribbons from Kuwait and Iraq.

\--------------------

  
_ 08/27/1997 _   
_ North of Bangkok, Thailand _   
  
In Chiang Rak Noi, sometime in the beastly-hot summer of 1996, he figured out that it could be useful.   
  
It’s a minor counter-drug thing, the kind of shit that isn’t going to work because most of the Thai military makes their money on the operations, but they’re there anyway.  
Coming home, not exactly drunk, from a bar, a scarred-up  _ kaa joa  _ brandishes a knife and demands his wallet.  
He doesn’t have time for this, seriously, there’s a briefing at zero-six and he’s about to shove the guy out of the way when the knife touches his chin.

… _.simple little dog, can’t hold a knife right...  
….left of the spine, fourth lumbar down, abdominal aorta..._

  
Walking away, he covers the slight limp, head still buzzing.  No one will miss the man.  Hell, it’s just another body in a semi-industrial suburb.    
He doesn’t lick his bleeding knuckles.

\--------------------

  
_ 02/18/2002 _   
_ Qala Jaolan, Afghanistan _   
  
In Qala Jaolan, in the winter of 2002, he came to understand that he needed it.   
  
Undercover as an American looking for jihad, he makes friends in the villages.  The  _ maulvi  _ likes him, says  his accent is good and getting better, and he grins.   
After three weeks of near-daily visits, he’s invited to a dance, and after so long without seeing a woman not in a blue burqa, he’s astonished to see them dancing half-naked, bells on their feet and wrists, makeup, hips moving sinuously.   
It strikes him as wrong, but not  _ that  _ wrong, until someone mentions  _ bacha bazi _ and he realizes.   
One explains, offers to find him a good one,  _ you keep him until his voice changes, or until he gets a beard, and then -  _ the hand-washing gesture is enough.

… _.....the desert is dark and cold at night; open fires for warmth and light....and more...  
…..blood burning coppery sharp, spinal fluid like a musky perfume, and the side of beef of whole limbs...  
….cracking knuckles open and steeled toes through a jaw...  
….23 feet of improvised rope, a tree of broken puppets...  
….the sounds of a scattered flock....a wolf in the night slaughtering the herd..._

  
That time takes him two days to come around.   
It never gets mentioned, although there are generic declarations that whoever destroyed most of the males in Qala Jaolan deserves a fucking medal.

\--------------------

  
Another handful of incidents, though never quite so bad.   
  
It takes another seven years before it happens again.

**Author's Note:**

> So far there is not much information to be found in the medical community about people blacking out and committing extreme acts of violence, though there are more than enough people who experience these episodes. Evidence suggests that it might be tied to "battle trance", but occurring outside a typical combat situation. It is possible that this is related to the Berserkrs; "Norse warriors who are reported in the Old Norse literature to have fought in a nearly uncontrollable, trance-like fury, a characteristic which later gave rise to the English word berserk."  
> Evidence also suggests that in some instances this is couple with schizophrenic/bi-polar state in which a seemingly different personality takes over to help the person combat the stress, as well as relay subconscious information about their environment and situation.


End file.
